The third phase of Yirith: Age of Low Adventure
Sessions 15-17+
Session 15, “To Retrieve a Storm”
The ship skirted the island of Leukes: in the distance the party could see from the deck the town where Canthilles ruled, as well as the mountains that rose up behind the shrine they had desecrated. Soon, the line of Iribos’ mass appeared on the northern horizon. The Eleftheria sailed up its windward coast, the vast Inner Sea off to the right. As the craft neared the shore, a tiny, rocky island with tumbledown stones could be seen jutting from the water, a very old shipwreck washed by its surf. A peacock stood atop the ruins, spreading his magnificent feathers, while black ravens harassed the colorful bird. Ovid pulled back an arrow in his bowstring and loosed. The shot went very wide, as the ship’s swift movement added an additional challenge to targeting. Suroga patted the albino on the back: One reason–among many–that he had left the Iron Horde was his relative inadequacy with the bow from a moving platform.
Marasmius was gathering the blood-tacky harpy rib and feathers, a couple olives, the gilding ripped from the aesclepeion, and … something old into a sack. He petted his swamphen, Gherkin, assuring her that she would never be the purple. Saartu begged pardon for his recent brain damage and asked what the jangalman was doing.
“Preparing the ingredients to sail this magic ship again.”
Famban said, “Thet’s odd. There’s no storm et all ovah Kryos…”
Chairus, for his part, mindlessly strummed his lute, vaguely smiling.
Kryos had a port with no ships, unless you counted the two broken hulls run up on the nearby beaches. Or you considered the small fishing boats that were being inexpertly handled in the nearby waters. As the Eleftheria cruised to a stop against the dock (the sails still full, no anchor dropping), the citizens out-and-about in the town began moving with haste toward the harbor. Citizennesses, rather, for not one was male.
“We should’ve dressed as women,” Ovid said.
“Who’s the most charming among us?”
“I have been told I am charming, but remember my addled wits…”
“Charm away, Saartu.”
Luckily, the mind-injured was the one who spoke the Kryosian’s tongue. As on Leukes, the form of Alashan was archaic, with some unfamiliar word usage. Saartu translated as he conversed, making the discussion a slow process.
“Are ye Orsilochus’ new men? Where is that curly-headed lunk? I do not see him on deck,” a woman in laboring clothes asked.
“Alas, Orsilochus sacrificed himself escaping from captivity.”
“What captivity did this be?”
“Ill-willed harpies.”
The woman scowled, “Ach. That monster giveth our sex a bad name!”
“Did you know him?”
The woman blushed. “Not in the way thou meanst, no.”
“By the way, how do you reproduce?” Ovid queried.
“The most prolific visiting specimens,” the woman answered, staring at both Marasmius and Suroga. Her eyes turned toward Ovid, “Ask him if his seed maketh white babies.”
When translated, Ovid responded, “I … uh, don’t think so … I wasn’t born this way.” Gods, why did I say that?
In Coinish, “She wouldn’t have known for months, Ovid!”
In Alashan: “And what do you do … when you … birth males?”
In Coinish: “Maybe we don’t want to know …”
This conversation and its train of thought, with visions of utterly loyal boys raised to be pure conquerors, was sidetracked, as an obvious leader, wearing a necklace of pebbles and the raiment of war, came striding through the gathered crowd, now numbering in the hundreds.
“Are ye heroes? Or are we beset by more thieves–how didst thou come by the Eleftheria?” she demanded, imperiously.
“Definitely heroes. Not thieves.” The woman was staring at Ovid’s external bone collection. “Do you have a thief problem?”
“The Corsair Queen, Thesekyra, hath seized that which protected us, the Basin of the Lady of Brine. Stole it right from the temple! If ye are heroes, surely ye would help us recover our relic.”
After Saartu translated, Famban whispered that he knew of this Thesekyra: swift, battle-hardened, cunning, dangerous. “She used to be one of them.”
“Ask her what would be the reward …” Marasmius suggested.
“I don’t think that request is going to define us as heroes,” Suroga interjected.
As if she sensed what they were saying, the leader, who introduced herself as the Archona of Kryos, Kronara, asked again about how the party came to be in possession of Orsilochus’ magic ship.
“Curl–he died heroically, freeing many prisoners.” The Inklings remembered his disemboweled body hanged from a tower.
“There are but six of ye here; which wert prisoners?”
“Some went by a different ship than us … back to the mainland. We gave them their own choice. We don’t hold captives … “
“Would ye then, heroes, track down Thesekyra, and bring back our storm?”
“I have a question for you: Have you been raiding Canthilles?”
“The cannibal? No. Our kind has not fought the Myrmidons for centuries.”
“He holds a woman captive that we know.”
“Has he eaten her?”
“No, not as far as we know, but I had to trade my own flesh for freedom,” Suroga reminded everyone.
“So, thou art willing to sacrifice,” Kronara observed.
“Some would say desperate … no, don’t translate that,” the Jurka muttered.
Another figure of evident importance came through the throng. This brawny woman, a mining leader named Meletia, wore a simple gold necklace. She argued against recovering the basin.
“The storm wert a crutch we relied on too long. It was best we were rid of it, to be honest–we owe Thesekyra thanks. We have allowed ourselves to go soft. The ranks of spearwomen have dwindled.” She gave a pointed look toward Kronara. “We were at the mercy of the Goddess’ whims! We need to rebuild the walls of Kryos, prepare for the Oculon.”
“The monsoon is over, the Oculon awakes and the storm no longer protects us, Meletia,” Kronara stated, “We must have it back in a hurry–there is no time to build walls! The only solution that will be timely is to take the Basin back from Thesekyra! She might be in the Cove of the Saint and Angel, just up the coast.”
When translated, Famban suggested that was untrue, “The corsairs all sail from the lee side of Iribos, not this shore!”
“What is the Oculon?”
“A giant that beareth a hundred eyes.”
“Heroes do not often labor as masons.”
“Not many erect walls, this is true,” Meletia replied, “But some of ye are built for it.”
“May we speak amongst ourselves to decide how we may aid you?”
“Certainly.”
Saartu reminded the others that his recent brain issues left him clouded as to even the basic goal of the journey to this port. Marasmius said that he desired to visit the ancient Ilcarian ruins at Iribos’ center, as powerful relics might be recoverable there. Suroga, a twinge in his buttock, stated that the Hamazakarons here might be an ally against Canthilles, although their reliance on the perpetual storm’s protection might mean they were unready for conflict, as Meletia had argued. Famban pointed out they sold gold here, but Suroga scowled at the idea of becoming mere merchants. Saartu remarked that providing services might gain information in trade.
“They don’t appear to like thieves, so we probably should not lead with looting graves inland …”
“We could offer our swords against the eye monster.”
“We must be careful, as barbarians are always misunderstood by the civilized.”
This conversation was interrupted by a third headwoman’s arrival. This Ionestes was a priestess of the Lady of Brine, wearing a copper and seaweed necklace, cowrie-and-tooth bracelets, and flimsy robes. After repeating the same rigmarole interrogating the Inklings’ relationship to their conveyance, she revealed that her intention was to call on the Lady’s assistance by redoubling piety and refurbishing the shrine. Ionestes sharply argued against the Basin’s recovery, and insisted that Thesekyra had sailed from a great distance, from the Obsidian Archipelago, where she was called the Queen of the Black Coast.
Suroga responded, “Avoiding taking on the Corsair Queen on her own turf is probably a good idea.”
“Plus, we are not truly sailors.”
Famban cleared his throat.
“If things go poorly at sea, we only have one person who knows what to do.”
In Coinish, “Why do you think Ionestes is unhappy with recovering the relic? It seems as though it would complete the reconstruction of her temple….”
Saartu, speaking for the party, informed the three Hamazakaron leaders that the company intended to search the Tomb of the Bull King to recover suitable armaments that might solve more than one of the current difficulties. Ionestes insisted that the complex was occupied by monsters and beast-men, and spirits of a bygone era, the sort of creatures that might be immune to mundane attacks. Kronara pointed out that a force from the Tomb had raided a town on the northern portion of Iribos, far beyond the nearby Cove where she believed Thesekyra was hiding.
“Could this settlement be allies?”
“If we put an end to the raids … maybe.”
“Coristea? Thou art probably correct, jangalman, but the Angel’s or the Saint’s power might be found in Thesekyra’s cave, in addition to the Basin.”
“The other settlements art harassed by the one-eyed giant,” Meletia said, “like our Oculon. We must defend ourselves!”
“The business of heroes is not usually masonry,” Saartu noted.
“Yes, no songs sung of bricks,” Marasmius agreed.
Meletia was obviously disappointed, but commented on Saartu’s unusual but alluring looks. The warlock tried to let her down easy. She also spoke of a sorcerer seeking power, whose ship had survived landing through the Kryos storm but not returned during the Year of the Serpent. This magician had sought a battlefield that Meletia would share with them, only if the Inklings were to help her in her task. It was the Glade of Peltrichor, carved from the mountains by an angel, the site of the last conflict with the Myrmidons.
“We need to be armed with more information … that we may know how we will die.”
“Aw, fuck, we forgot to tell them about the bird omens we spotted on the way here,” Suroga lamented. Since he knew that the Hamazakarons were always big into ornithomancy, he described what had been seen. Meletia argued that the Oculon was surely the peacock, and the Inklings the ravens. “Did the dark birds kill the big one? Or were they devoured?” The priestess insisted that the peacock’s feathers were water, the bird the Lady of Brine, and the ravens the people here who would undermine her. Kronara suggested that the ravens were the monsters from the Tomb of the Bull King picking apart Coristea.
Each chieftess continued her pleas for the heroes’ assistance with her own project. The party discussed the advantages and disadvantages of each strategem. Rededicating the temple might be the least dangerous, but would insufficiently true piety for the Lady of the Brine undermine the project? The Cove of the Angel and the Saint would be the quickest to undertake, but the Corsair Queen might not even be there. Building the wall seemed the most pointless, but Meletia might be the most valuable ally for an assault on the Tomb.
The Eleftheria was a powerful tool that might help them navigate through the options quickly. When the Cove of the Angel and the Saint was whispered from deck, nothing happened. Everyone was a bit embarrassed on both sides. Nor did further orders for the ship’s destination draw a response. The ship stayed anchored.
“Maybe, in the manner of magic things, it works but once a day?”
The party refused subsequent offers to tour the Temple. They would wait for dawn to try and sail again. They took the spare sleeping quarters offered, noting the elaborate structures of basins and runnels outside every building. They awoke to Orsilochus’ ship having vanished and all their supplies floating in the harbor. As they recovered the materials ashore, the rudder was located underwater on the seafloor. Sebastea’s crystal sphere hummed again when it was pulled from the drink. Because they only had so many launchings-worth prepared for their magic craft, the party decided a journey on foot to the Cove would be reasonable. Chairus chose to stay back and “entertain” the Hamazakarons with his “musicianship.” Famban, who seemed to have some knowledge of this coast, was pressed into service, even though he had not been promoted to full Inkling status.
The trip along the sea cliffs was relatively uneventful, some wild spotted dogs ripping apart a kill on the beach were avoided easily enough. Famban recognized the Cove; there were orchards of figs and olives above it, stone steps down the cliff to the cave. A sunken ship, completely beneath the waves of the inlet, perturbed the sailor.
The cave was easy enough to enter, Famban being cautious and the others a bit rash. An obscene graffito of a mermaid crudely decorated the interior of the cave walls. The loud surf masked the party’s approach. A pair of sailors, perhaps pirates, diced in a smooth space nside a large cave, lit with a few lamps. They reacted with hostility to the intrusion.
Although one was brought down quickly the other managed to rouse three other pirates resting nearby. The combat proceeded in fits and starts, as a gruesome evisceration led to a surrender that was quickly reneged upon. Laughter was the response when Thesekyra’s location was queried. The short-time prisoner warned the party about his demonic allies in the caves. A couple silver arrowheads were found on one of the bodies.
The far side of the room was blocked by rusty iron bars and stalagmites, with a padlocked gate. A pirate woman whispered to be set free, a chain also around her ankle. The Inklings indicated that they would return to free her later, as they didn’t trust her. Famban remained distant from this conversation.
“Hey, Famban, are you worried about being recognized?” Marasmius asked. “Are these friends of yours?”
The query was interrupted by an attack from the only other lighted area, the attackers coming from the shadows. “Ye shalt not pass!” the three sailors yelled. A freakish biped with talons only screeched. The Inklings made pretty short work of three, and the fourth fled into darkness, seemingly disappearing.
A cave with a stack of skulls pleased Ovid for a moment, until he noticed the arcane markings on one of them. Marasmius felt in his leg bones that picking that up would be a bad idea. A bit of smoke and the smell of meat lingered in the air, seeming to come from the left. A circular passage extended to the right, empty. Another empty room was ahead, colder with several alcoves that seemed to have no import.
The smokey tunnel led past a recess where a single seaman with muddy hands told them of Captain Vulture, who wouldn’t care for their intrusion into his cave. They let the man live. An interior fork in the cave was ignored, the smoke followed. In another niche, a brazier burned beneath hunks of meat on hooks, generating a delicious smell and a hazy atmosphere.
The tunnel carried on into a wide space marked by instruments of torture: a rack, a breaking wheel, and a branding iron shaped into occult sigils resting in another lit brazier. There was no time to investigate, however, as a screeching, spitting beast glided down from a rubble wall. Just as the Saartu delivered a final, exhausted blow to the creature, the earth began to shake.
EARTHQUAKE!
Session 16, “Acid and Tranquility”
As the earth shook inside the tunnel, something very strange happened, even compared to the oddities that have beset the Inklings across their adventures. The scene around them flipped back and forth between two realities: the first, with torture devices, a crumbling wall, the dead body of a beast-man; the second filled with a choking, yellow smoke, and a large flat circle. Coughing prodigiously, eyes weeping, the party fled toward clear air, although the body odor generated by five men who had only bathed incidentally for weeks (and also wore “blood cologne”) meant that the atmosphere was hardly fresh. The tremors stopped and the scene settled into one vision.
“I saw an angel in the smoke,” Famban declared, obviously terrified. Because it didn’t seem to be chasing them, the adventurers took stock of their surroundings. The clear air was far colder than it had been, moments ago. There was no sand on the rocky floor, but rather greyish dust. The stink of the yellow cloud (and their own odors) filled their nose, but there was no lingering scent of smoked meat. There was an odd hum and distant whispers, maybe the hint of something flapping. A stone slab of a warped circular shape lay heavily on the cave floor. It had an indentation clearly shaped like a four-legged creature with a tail. A human could easily fit inside the shape, provided they slipped their limbs through the four stone arcs that looked a bit like restraints at the “wrists” and “ankles.” An odd script had been carved into the rock.
Ovid lay down in the indentation. When he got his hands and feet situated, a voice that sounded like gravel crashing together spat, “Will you share your bones with me?” Ovid immediately wondered whether it meant his outside bones that he wore as decoration, or his inside bones, but in his heart he knew that the latter was what the voice referred to. He also realized that the entity, whatever it was, would not bargain. He imagined being left as a boneless jelly-man, but wondered if he got something in exchange for his skeleton. He said, “No, I do not want to share my bones,” and climbed out.
“You are very protective of your bones.”
“Anyone else want to give up their bones?”
“What’s the end goal here?”
“We might get more bones?”
“And do what with them…?”
“At least it asked for the bones, rather than taking without permission.”
“This is obviously demonic, not worth tempting fate.”
“Hold up, here,” Saartu said, and tried to parse the script. “Behold the
wheel of … Ogunnastra … the Grinding Nightmare. I am unfamiliar with this demon, guys.”
“‘The Grinding Nightmare’? Let’s move on…”
Trying to cross the yellow smoke, which seemed to be hovering in place, neither coming closer, nor dissipating, was put forth as the next action. Famban did not want to get closer to the angel–he had seen its spheres and metal teeth. Some discussion of angels followed, how they, as perfect representations of the Law, tended to grind people up with their whirling blades. No one had actually seen an angel until this point, and the others had not witnessed what Famban had seen. The sailor reminded the others of a passage they had not explored, that hopefully was not filled with miasma. Suroga tested the candle contraption, but the flame did not keep the sulfurous fog away from his breathing holes.
“Could we cover our mouths, close our eyes, and run through?”
“You want to run blinded through who knows what distance of fumes to an unknown reward?”
The party retreated up the breathable tunnel. There was no smell of smoked meat, and in fact, the braziers and meathooks were no longer in the alcove where they had been, just a matter of minutes ago. A few scattered rocks lay on the floor, of different composition than the cave itself. Marasmius felt the crusted sore where his earlobe had been but a few hours earlier.
The party took the unexplored path which opened up into a room that reminded them of the dressing room in the Golden Aesclepeion. A few benches sat in front of a set of five vertical, metal cabinets. Inside the man-sized cupboards–which had fantastically-intricate opening mechanisms–were weird white full suits of squishy, bulky armor. Gloves and boots were attached, and a full face plate with a glassed window for sight went over the head. It looked as though this armor would fit even over top of the inked cuirass, just not boots. The material felt squishy and flexible, and on the back was a lump.
On the inside of the helmet were three nubbins near the mouth. One clicked on a glass torch running above the faceplate. The long one provided fresh air. The last seemed to do nothing. While putting his on (after having removed his boots), Ovid discovered a heavy, black, hand-sized sphere with a crack running around the equator. It wouldn’t pop open, but when he twisted the hemispheres, they locked, and a red light started flashing quicker and quicker. The albino heaved the object into the tunnel and it detonated. A ginger cat, apparently hiding in the rough stone wall, yowled and fled the room.
With Saartu and Ovid inside the white armor, the five adventurers proceeded into the room where the cat had fled. A pale blue glow suffused the vaulted cavern here, accompanied by a loud hum. The unequipped retreated to the lockers, doffed their boots and donned the jelly suits. Everyone was now warmer and had their own personal light, but their eyesight was limited by the faceplate and the directional quality of the “torch,” and most outside sounds were obscured by the echoes of breathing and the creaking of the flexing jelly.
A flattened space lay near the center of the room. To the left, stagmites and columns seemed to have a glowing, buzzing blue pane of glass fitted perfectly between them. On the other side, another metal cabinet sat, larger than the suit lockers. Ovid touched the window and was rewarded with a crackle, sparks, and pain.
“These suits are useless! Why didn’t you stop me!”
Marasmius pulled his gloves he had been reaching forward back from the danger. Ovid’s, at least, didn’t seem too badly damaged. Through the white helmets, a muffled cat yowl was heard ahead, and feeling that the dumb beast was probably trustworthy, the party trudged in its direction, stirring up grey dust as they walked.
The passage led to a grotto that was the meeting point of a cross of tunnels. A stack of nine small boxes, roughly the size of the exploding black sphere, stood against one wall. The passage to the right seemed to have a moist floor, with the glint of precious metal flashing as the helmet torch beams were swung to investigate.
“Boxes contain things.”
The boxes were almost like a material between paper and metal, fine and lightweight. The first was easy to open, and empty. The second held what had to be a bird skull, although its bone was etched with eldritch runes. Saartu couldn’t read them, but put the skullbox in one of the jelly-suit pockets. All but one of the other boxes were empty, but one held a folded piece of stiff parchment that was dark blue, with bizarre circles, diagrams, and letterings of another unknown script.
“You know, there were nine skulls in the other … this? … cave.”
“Let’s take the jelly suits into the glitter zone.”
When the entire party had clomped into the wet passage, a clamping sound came from behind them: the entrance had vanished! A flood of acid came raining down from the ceiling and roiling up from the floor, melting the squishy armor right off their bodies in an instant. The shock of the predicament and the awkwardness of having scabbards strapped on the outside of the dissolving outfits meant that nearly everyone fumbled with their weapons, although Suroga reacted instinctively to jab the floor, and then raged in anger at having fallen into such a stupid trap. The lights on the helmets all fizzled out as they deliquesced. Ovid lamented having wasted the explosive sphere, and slashed again and again, blindly, cutting gouges into the “tunnel.” Marasmius called on Chaos to damn him if he should die being swallowed by a great serpent, and slammed his sword so hard into the beast’s throat that the weapon shattered. The monster convulsed, as if to vomit them all up, but barely held its gorge down. The adventurers’ bodies would be liquified in moments. His demon having whispered the monster’s fear of a resisting meal, Saartu hesitated, running through his sorceries. Then he almost mindlessly reached for the bird skull to jam it–
Soft chimes rang somewhere in the distance, maybe faint, crashing waves. Everyone’s skin burned fiercely in the dark from the corrosive, and the air stil felt warm, but no longer moist. Incense pricked their noses, not the vomitus of a mammoth worm.
A torch was struck. Saartu handed Marasmius his spare weapon. The adventurers stood in puddled boots on a floor of sand, footprint impressions all headed deeper in. Miraculously, no one was dead. But where were they?
Cautiously, the party crept back through what had been the “mouth,” now open, into a familiarly-shaped room with a rocky floor, four other tunnels as its exits. A rapid swishing noise came from the right, as did the illumination of another torch around a corner. Suroga snuffed his light as quickly as he had ignited it. Despite the soft music in the atmosphere, the Jurka still raged.
No longer burdened by the noise of the squishy armor, and also wearing bare feet, the Inklings crept forward, toward the noise and light. A man in simple robes was sweeping dust from the cave floor, and near him similar puffs of powder were being raised.
“Ointment, m’lord?” was said in Coinish.
The man smiled and nodded, put his hand to his own throat, and shook his head.
“Are you mute, friend?” Saartu asked.
He showed his intact tongue.
“Vow of silence, then?”
The man nodded, but then he frowned at the cloud activity getting closer to the party.
“Is this dangerous, should we move?”
He smiled and shook his head. Then sat down, cross-legged on the floor.
Suspecting a dangerous ghost, the party moved away from the approaching plumes. They almost stepped on the seven eggs on the crossroads room floor.
“I’ve got zero ideas here.”
“My brain hurts.”
“We could call the guy ‘waggle-tongue’.”
This unproductive discussion was interrupted by the sight of a torch approaching from one of the tunnels. Three men, in the same dress as the visible sweeper, were walking closer, five hands outstretched and level, the other holding the flame. Saartu was shoved toward the front of the Inklings. He was careful not to step on the eggs on the floor.
The acolyte holding the torch did not speak, but the second did, and in pidgin Coinish said, “May help yous?”
“Where are we?”
“Where are we all?” he responded, unhelpfully, even if that didn’t seem to be his intent.
Wise guy, huh.
“This location transcendence and tranquility.”
“Who do you worship?”
“All that sacred.”
The men apparently held water in their five extended, cupped palms. They nodded and walked on, leaving via the tunnel to their right and the party’s left. Maybe the sound of surf issued from that direction.
“Can we just leave?”
“We changed to some other realm … are we back where we started?”
“I don’t think so, there were skulls here, now it's eggs.”
It was decided to venture deeper, down the path the monks had come from. An alcove with another glint, duller this time, was avoided. A second side passage was skipped. Mushrooms grew along the tunnel walls that sloped downward. A right fork was taken. The smell of incense grew stronger, and in the chamber that had held smoking meat or crumbled rocks, was instead a thurible and smoky spice sticks draped with wooden beads. Further along, the wheelstone of the Grinding Nightmare had vanished, but another disciple knelt, blocking the path ahead (but not to the left, where another torch glowed out of sight). The monk informed the party that beyond him was a place of sacrifice and healing, apotheosis.
“Always with the apotheosis.”
“Are we allowed back there?”
The acolyte shook his head, no, only the blessed could pass.
The Inklings abided by his rule and ventured toward the side cavern. Weirdly, the floor of the cave was covered in moss despite their being no sun. Slightly less odd, two barefoot mendicants crawled through the plant carpet near the wall flame, combing their fingers through the green. They told the party they sought a mother-of-pearl beetle, and the adventurers (plus one purple hen, but minus Saartu) joined the search. The bird located the insect, and Marasmius was lucky to save the bug from its gullet. He gave the scarab to the acolytes, who thanked him and said they must release it. “We are the Inklings … in case you want to tell others of who completed this good deed.” The monks nodded, climbed a rope ladder up the scarp that made up one wall of the cavern, seemed to pull on sandals, and disappeared out of sight.
A passage beyond the moss led to a chamber where an older man in slightly more elaborate robes stood on his head, the cloth hanging toward his face and revealing simple undergarments. Attempts to engage him via speech failed. Although Marasmius suspected evil was afoot, he could find no evidence of it. The party gave up on the headstander and climbed the rope ladder. Although the air was warm, the cave floor was cold on the adventurers’ feet. They passed a couple tunnels to their left and ended up in the vaulted room.
Instead of a blue window, or metal bars, the spaces between the stalagmites and columns were criss-crossed by a fine lacquered latticework that seemed to have no door, but did have a slot in one section. A light could be seen, as well as a man hard at work scratching out writings at a desk. The party shared with him the blue parchment they had found in the lightweight box, one cave ago, but the sage could not make sense of it, either. Its runes had not been part of his education. In exchange for failing this service, he handed them a scroll with sorcerous writings on it. Saartu could read that this was a spell that would turn his own blood to acid, outside his body. The alcove that had held treacherous corsairs in hammocks earlier, now held a boiling brown liquid atop a fire, as well as trays of red nuts.
The Inklings followed the sound of surf to an exit, sunlight sharply angled into the cavemouth. In front of the sea cove were the three water-bearing acolytes from earlier, smiling broadly, hands at their sides. The sun was setting to the left, not behind the party as it should have been. There was no wreckage under the water here, though a path led to the clifftop above, like before. Three moons were in the sky, as usual.
“Where the hell are we?!”
Ovid punched the sand.
“Were we in the future, and now the past?!”
Marasmius spoke with the monks in Coinish, reciting the ancient history of the Angelim and Leviathan that once flew the skies of Yirith, the gargantuan salamander construct that strode the earth, and the Jade Empire of the serpent-men. The disciples knew of the snake-folk, but agreed that that was long ago. The other stories were unfamiliar.
“Maybe the scribe knows…”
“What is the nearest village here–is it called Kryos, all women?”
“It on Quiet Lake. Not all womens.”
“Do you know of Ilcar, my home, the Immortal City?”
“Ah, yes, one of seven!”
So they were likely on the Inner Sea. But where? And when?!
Session 17: “Pirate Morgue: Ovid’s and Marasmius’ Apotheosis”
“What happened to the others?” Ovid asked.
“They must have stepped back into the cave,” Marasmius suggested.
Famban and the three acolytes were with the two adventurers on the beach, the high tide going out on a clear day. The party climbed the path to the cliff above, and saw the two monks who had brought out the beetle Gherkin the bird had found. Marasmius greeted them warmly, reminded the two others of that assistance, so as to make friends here–in case they had slipped into a different universe … or era. A butterfly spiraled past, ominously, as if daring them to accidentally crush it.
The monastery had a garden up here: woody shrubs, unfamiliar beans, nut trees. The plants were foreign but not alien. A faint trail lined the clifftop in each direction along the coast. It seemed a great risk to venture away from here. The few remaining Inklings were exhausted, so they retreated down the escarpment, and lay down in the warm sand as the sun set. The five acolytes outside re-entered the cave.
When rested, the adventurers returned to the cave as well. The interior had not changed since they had last left, with soft chimes playing somewhere indiscernable in the distance. The scribe behind the lacquerwork fence had snuffed his candle and was no longer writing. Marasmius fed himself with a few nuts that stained his teeth red. He felt a slight pep in his step. The Inklings made their way to the crossroad chamber that contained the seven eggs on the floor, and the mouths of the sandy loop … where they had almost died … but not here.
“The bird skull brought us … here … and Saartu has it.”
Ovid resisted the urge to yell out for the sorcerer, in case it attracted dangerous attention. He didn’t resist the urge to claim an egg from the floor.
“What if we are … in the past … and hunt down the baby worm, kill it … and …” He trailed off, maybe because they had survived the encounter. Marasmius was definitely flouting the contemporary cosmological theories of the civilized scholars of Yirith, who were quite certain of cyclical time being the foundation of reality, despite the long litany of ages in their histories. The sand had a mess of footprints where the cavemouth met the rocky chamber. Marasmius stabbed the ground, just in case the dust concealed a tongue. The powder was very shallow and his sword bent alarmingly. Gherkin was released in case the juvenile form of the party-eater was currently a tiny worm concealed in the sand.
The humans ventured into the looping tunnel. The confusion of footprints turned into foot traffic all passing in the same direction, deeper in. They continued on since others had done it. (Maybe it was just one other, repeating himself, over and over, but the party did not consider that.) Ovid matched his feet to the existing indentations. The group finished the loop, safe, but no wiser. The curiosity of the sand loop bothered them inordinately.
The Inklings returned to the swept room, now empty and without light, and carried on past, into an area never yet explored. The faint smell of vegetative rot hit their noses, so they were a little cautious. The odor came from rotting fruits (probably not from the orchard outside) left around the statue of a seated sage, just as practiced on the Street of Saints, back in the City of Thieves, which seemed awfully far away about now. A serene look had been carved into the figure’s face. Ovid left the egg he’d picked up, hoping that the cult didn’t have an animal product taboo. Maybe some similar offering would loosen the tongue of the upside-down sage in the other cavern.
The party moved deeper, finding a scroll, one hundred feet long, that repeated the same line (in an unknown script) thousands of times. Ovid rolled it up, though it got very heavy by the end. Nearby was another statue, almost exactly like the previous, except for its face, twisted in horror. Close to this sculpture was a well, with a bucket and a rope, a liquid within a torch-light’s depth.
Ovid dropped the roped bucket down, retrieved what looked like water, and took a sip. Near as he could tell, it was refreshing cold cave water. Everyone took a drink. The albino felt that the marble monk might appreciate a beverage, too, and poured some on his lips.
The “statue” suddenly screamed and writhed on the ground–it was just a man coated in dust, maybe? Eventually, the sage recomposed himself, and drank deeply of the well water. He began bowing to Ovid in either supplication or thanks. His language was unfamiliar. He gestured as though his head were exploding. The party offered to bring him out of the cave, though he did not seem to understand them, he followed.
At the other statue, the Inklings made sure that it wasn’t another dusty man, while the erstwhile dusty man grabbed the egg off the floor. He pointed at it and gestured as largely as he could make his arms. The party did not understand, even though he kept repeating himself. Suddenly, the sage smashed the shell in his fist. The yolk ran down his wrist, and he laughed. He gestured big again.
At the room with six eggs, the sage crushed them one by one in his fists. The Inklings did not interfere. When finished, the man gestured with two fingers, and looked around questioningly. He flashed seven fingers, then two again. The party led him out of the room and past the scribe’s prison to a room they had not seen, with a perfectly-formed stone sphere in the center. They went deaf as they got close. Experimenting with the stone ball found it to be immobile. Inside the circle of silence the sage seemed to have found his happy place, and he closed his eyes.
The Inklings left him there, discovering the charred spot which seemed to have been where Ovid had heaved the explosive, back when this room had held white armor in lockers. Investigation of a side tunnel found a ten-by-ten cubby cabinet. Five slots were occupied by rolled scrolls, and the rest by thin metal rods. The former’s markings were Saartu’s truck, and the latter were loaded (they were heavy) aboard the Inklings until they could carry no more, even dumping some of their secondary weapons.
An alcove with a glint that had frightened the party away earlier was scrutinized, and the glow turned out to have come from a brass bell on the ground. The device was rung, and a sage with his legs akimbo floated by in the passage outside. The party followed the levitating mystic down the tunnels, past the incense alcove and through to the initiate guarding the tunnel toward “apotheosis.” The ranking brother floated past the other into the darkness.
“Maybe the floor is lava … maybe you need to be in the air for the ‘sacrifice and healing’?”
The party did not challenge the sacred law and push their way past the picket. They instead found the moss room to also be the sleeping quarters of the majority of the sect. The three climbed the rope ladder up, stole three pairs of sandals from atop the cliff, and wandered back to the non-floating sage they’d rescued from a dreamworld eternity. On waking, he reached out and grasped them and–
was gone. The faint crashing of surf was back in the party’s ears. The smell of incense evaporated, replaced by a smoked meat odor in their nostrils. The stone sphere had vanished from their eyes. In the prison room they saw iron bars–no glowing blue window or lacquered latticework–and corpses that they had created there. The Inklings were back with the corsairs, back in their own world. Probably.
They had grown tired–maybe sleeping on moss would be good here, too. At the top of the cliff, they could hear the clink of a heavy chain, the sound of scuttling. They chose not to descend into the darkness, but rather get deeper via the long path (which took them past the sausage smokeroom).
There was no guardian acolyte, no Grinding Wheel, but the rack, the breaking wheel, and a branding iron in a brazier now sat in the lower room, as had the corpse of the beastman they had slain, in a skirmish that now seemed like it had been weeks ago, rather than hours. The clinking chain beyond the fallen rock wall (and no moss) led them to try this instance’s “apotheosis” tunnel.
A couple of alcoves along this path contained the turds of some human-like creature, which turned out to be the beastmen that charged out of the darkness while the Inklings were gawking at a black stone altar. The foes were beaten, collapsing onto some of the many moldy rag piles that decorated the cave floor, but only after spitting acid onto Famban’s face. The shrine was black stone, wrapped in chains, and topped with a golden candelabra, a fish-scale-covered tome, and a small bottle with a tiny ship inside, which Marasmius thought was fun. They chose to rest in this forsaken place, hopefully to gain some strength before making the next move. This would be their last mistake.
Five corsairs came toward the dead-end while Marasmius kept watch. He woke the others, and obliterated the first pirate that came at him, but that just made the others redouble their effort. Famban and Ovid got tangled in the moldy close heaped on the cave floor, so the fight did not begin on a positive note for the Inklings. It turned out that Captain Vulture actually had a bird head, and knew sorceries, but not terribly well, as he failed to debilitate the party with his spellcraft. That would not matter; the corsairs’ cutlasses would be enough. Fate seemed to have finished with these two Inklings.
Although his (inherited) armor was stout, after a long, hard fight it was pierced, and Marasmius fell.
Although he managed to backstab one his erstwhile mates, he was slashed repeatedly, and Famban fell.
Although his last-gasp flurry managed to cut all his foes, he was out of time, and Ovid fell.
Marasmius smelled a corsair’s foul breath on his face, heard “Wot ‘ave we ‘ere,” and felt Gherkin struggle as the bird was pulled from its traveling pocket. As he felt the blood spill from his opened throat, he envisioned traveling through time in this cave, to stop this
Famban heard Captain Vulture’s hideous accent in his ears, “Thought oi didn’t recognize ye, Famban, eh…” his last conscious processing of
Ovid felt a pirate kneeling on his chest, his outer set of ribs. “Huh, two sets a bones for the Crab.” His addled mind lamented the impending loss of the platinum rods. There was pressure and warmth at his neck and
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